


Sex, Lies and Photographs

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Missing Scene, Road Trip, Zane!Sylar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-26
Updated: 2008-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surrounded by Zane Taylor's personal effects, Sylar is forced to construct a life of lies to placate Mohinder's curiosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex, Lies and Photographs

**Author's Note:**

> References to canon suicide attempt.
> 
> Runner Up Best Episode-Centric Fic @ the Heroes Slash Awards: Winter 2009

_I could go with you. I could help you._

When Sylar had said the words, heart hammering in his chest as he willed Mohinder not to turn him down, he had thought it would be as simple as locking the door behind him with his mind as they left. But when Mohinder agrees, the practicalities of pretending to be another man come to the fore.

'Don't you want to call someone?' he asks slowly. 'To let them know where we're going? I could be anyone, Zane. You shouldn't be so trusting.'

It's a ludicrous pantomime, Mohinder drifting aimless around the living room, looking at the half-melted remains of Zane's household appliances while Sylar holds the phone to his ear and feigns a conversation. He has to use Mohinder's cell because Zane's home phone is a barely recognisable lump at his toe. Sylar kicks at it absently as he keeps an eye on Mohinder's movements. He's not sure yet what he'll do if Mohinder wanders towards the kitchen.

When the charade is over, he doesn't bother to clear Mohinder's call history. It seems more sporting to leave Mohinder a clue and see if he's bright enough to decipher it for what it really means. He hands back the phone, but Mohinder is still looking at him expectantly. There's an uncomfortable silence before it dawns on Sylar what Mohinder is waiting for.

'I'll just grab some stuff.' He motions at the stairs and Mohinder settles himself back at the table, seemingly content to wait while Sylar packs. But there's a corpse in the next room, and as much as Sylar is enjoying testing the limits of Mohinder's credulity, there's no way he could explain away the body. 'Why don't you come up? Keep me company?'

'If you like.'

If Mohinder's surprised at his suggestion, he's polite enough not to let it show. He trails a step or two behind Sylar as they mount the stairs, looking the house over as much with his hands as with his eyes. He drags a finger along the wall, touching each of the framed album covers as they pass. He's humming something that Sylar suspects was a hit for one of the bands that he's only vaguely heard of.

Sylar's going into the second storey blind. He didn't think to explore the house before Mohinder arrived. He hadn't anticipated any of this but he enjoys this risky game, running on adrenaline and his wits alone to convince Mohinder that he is who he says he is and that this house he's never set foot in before is his home. Sylar has found that people are naively trusting and that even in the face of the most damning evidence, they're too complacent to consider that anyone is anything but who they claim to be.

It isn't hard to spot the master bedroom from the hall. The doors are wide open and Sylar can see the corner of the double bed as his foot lands on the final stair. He leads Mohinder there with the authority of one who owns the place. There's a duffle bag on top of the wardrobe and Sylar quickly fishes it down. Mohinder is drawn to the bookshelf in the corner, and while he's safely occupied, Sylar slips into the en suite bathroom.

Sylar shudders at the thought of using someone else's toiletries. He crouches down below the sink, finding, much to his relief, that Zane is well stocked with unopened bottles and tubes of everything that he could need. There are even a few still-wrapped toothbrushes tucked behind a box of condoms. Sylar is careful not to touch it as he sneaks the brighter coloured of the lot. He's still crouched down, smelling the two types of shampoo that Zane seems to have been fond of when he hears Mohinder's voice as he walks towards the bathroom.

'Who's this?'

Sylar dumps both bottles in the bag and meets Mohinder at the door before he can notice that the real Zane's toilette still lies strewn across the counter top. A photo frame is shoved under his nose, showing Zane centre stage at a family gathering of some sort. A barbeque, the Fourth of July perhaps?

Sylar is usually good at thinking on his feet, but the question has him momentarily flummoxed.

'Oh, um, a friend?' he stutters, internally cringing that the hesitancy in his voice is nothing to do with pretending to be Zane. Mohinder raises an eyebrow in disbelief and Sylar realises his error straight away. Who keeps framed photographs of their friends and their friends' families in their bedroom? Photographs that didn't include themselves? Sylar isn't sure that anyone does. Not having any friends of his own, Sylar can't be certain, but the only photos on display in his mother's home were those of long dead relatives.

He should have said that Zane was his brother or his cousin. Mohinder is staring at the photo more closely and Sylar falters as he packs his bag. He hadn't seen more than a glimpse of the picture when Mohinder flashed it under his nose and he wonders what it is that's making Mohinder stare. He definitely should have gone with a familial relation of some sort; Mohinder's interest wouldn't have been piqued by that. However, Sylar looks nothing like Zane's short, squat family. Then again, surely Mohinder wouldn't have been so crass as to query his parentage?

Regardless, it's too late now to change his answer, and Mohinder is humming to himself in a self satisfied way, like he's found the clue that solves the mystery. Sylar walks away, not wanting to be observed while Mohinder makes his big reveal. He opens the top drawer of the dresser and is relieved to find it stacked with t-shirts, not underwear as he had feared. He starts to throw a couple in the duffle bag when Mohinder speaks.

'He's wearing your shirt.'

Mohinder sounds entirely unsurprised by the revelation but there's something challenging in his tone nonetheless. Sylar glances down at the Ramones t-shirt he'd taken off the dead man's back. 'We went to the concert together.'

Sylar's rather proud of himself for the quick save and when Mohinder's only reply is a knowing, 'Mmmm hmmm,' he finds that he's getting annoyed. He thinks his explanation was perfectly suitable, after all, isn't that what friends did? They went to concerts together and they bought souvenirs and they put up photographs of one another in their homes. Sylar's been watching people his entire life and he doesn't think there's anything suspicious in what he's said, but it's obvious that Mohinder hasn't believed a word he's said since he picked up that goddamned photo frame.

He's moved to the wardrobe now and he's pulling out jeans without checking to see if they'd fit him. He wants to get out of this house and turn Mohinder's attention back to his list. He stuffs the clothes into the bag without bothering to fold them and he hopes Mohinder is feeling chastened by his obvious anger. He hears a delicate clink as Mohinder replaces the frame on the shelf.

'I don't mind, you know, Zane,' Mohinder says conversationally. Sylar isn't sure what it is that he's insinuating.

'Mind what?' Sylar snaps, trying to cover his annoyance that Mohinder has somehow gained control over this situation.

'I don't mind that you're gay. It's just that I don't want to cause trouble with your boyfriend when he finds out you're driving across the country with me.'

Sylar sucks in a sharp breath. He should be insulted by Mohinder's presumption. His mother would consider it the gravest insult to be accused of being a homosexual. But to his surprise, he's more insulted at the assumption that he would ever be with someone as beneath him as Zane Taylor than he is at the assumption that he is gay at all. Relationships may have passed Sylar by, but he isn't blind. He knows that he is attractive and that Zane isn't. If anything, based on appearance alone, he thinks that he and Mohinder would make a more realistic couple than he and Zane.

He tries to push aside those thoughts because Mohinder sounds dangerously close to changing his mind about Sylar accompanying him. The definitiveness of his tone makes Sylar think Mohinder's had trouble with jealous boyfriends in the past. It's on the tip of his tongue to deny Mohinder's words but it's too complicated now to unravel the situation without leaving Mohinder asking even more awkward questions that he hasn't the patience to answer. There's no easy way to convince someone that when he said 'friend', he really meant 'cousin'. So he goes the easy route and resigns himself to 'Zane's' new sexuality. Sylar doesn't know anyone gay, he doesn't think, but then again, he doesn't know any musicians either. He's confident that he can pull _that_ off, so he doubts he'll have a problem feigning homosexuality.

'He's not my boyfriend.' Mohinder raises that infuriating eyebrow again but when Sylar adds more quietly, 'Not anymore at least,' Mohinder's expression softens.

'Oh. I'm sorry, I thought… Anyway, it's none of my business.'

***

They stop at a scenic rest point. Mohinder's never been this deep in the American countryside before and he can't stop exclaiming about the beauty of the mountains or the purity of the snow as it falls. Sylar pretends to find Mohinder's awe endearing, but there is only so much conversation about the landscape and weather that he can take. While Mohinder walks around the small roadside clearing, Sylar leans against the railing. They're overlooking a sheer drop and if not for Mohinder's incessant babbling and his own desire to hurry to their meeting with Dale Smither, he would appreciate the aesthetic virtues of the view.

Instead, he's restless. There's a small plaque giving their altitude, longitude and latitude. Mohinder, of course, insists on cleaning off the accumulated snow and grime with the side of his sleeve and reading out the blurb about local fauna and flora. Sylar couldn't care less, so he tunes out Mohinder's voice. He braces his hands on the ice-laden rail and slowly melts the snow until slush is dripping onto the white plastic caps of his shoes and his palms are prickling from the chill of the water.

He finds it fascinating that the power of liquefaction seems to work without heat, acting on the molecules themselves to break their bonds without added energy. He thinks he will soon be able to harness the fundamentals to reverse the effect. Sylar can find far more uses for the ability to melt household objects and reform them as he wishes than for Zane Taylor's power as the other man possessed it. But for now that's an idle curiosity, something with which to amuse himself when out of Mohinder's sight. False epiphany or not, Mohinder would be suspicious if Sylar's control developed in staggering leaps and bounds before his eyes.

Mohinder is still talking: an anecdote about camping and rock climbing in India. Is there nothing that doesn't provoke this man to share a recollection of his youth or his hopes for the future? Sylar has played on his forthcoming nature to pick apart what little Mohinder comprehends about his father's research but he finds himself wishing again that Eden's power hadn't been so wastefully thrown away. What he wouldn't give for the ability to say: _Shut up and drive,_ and to find himself obeyed without question.

Still, Sylar thinks, there's no point in dwelling on that which was lost to him forever. He wipes his palms on the back of his trousers and admits that _persuasion_ might detract from his fun. For all the amusement he might glean from wantonly using his powers in front of Mohinder, from confessing to Chandra's murder and revealing what he planned to do to Dale, only to order Mohinder to forget what it was that he had heard and seen, Sylar enjoys outwitting Mohinder in this prosaic way too. Less than perfect though he may be, Mohinder isn't unintelligent and he's certainly not unobservant. There have been many times already when Sylar has been on the verge of indulging in a telekinetic hand to adjust his sun visor or his seat, only to glance at Mohinder out of the corner of his eyes and find himself pinned under the other man's scrutiny. The closer Sylar skates to a blatant display of his abilities, the more complete his power over Mohinder feels when Mohinder remains unaware.

Sylar digs some loose change from his coat pocket and lines up the coins on the metal railing. He wants to melt the whole bar, running the length of the clearing and into the brush on either side, just to see if he can. Sylar feels compelled to test the limits of his ability and to see how much strength such a display would take. Can he melt a car, if he wanted to? Could he melt just the metal exterior and leave the upholstered interior standing? He thinks that he can but no matter what his gut tells him, he aches to know for certain. But such experiments cannot take place here and now. At the very least, he doesn't think he could stand to be stranded indefinitely at the roadside with only Mohinder for company.

He shuffles the coins until they are in order of denomination, from pennies to fifty cent pieces. One lone dollar coin, change from a vending machine somewhere, rounds out the procession. He hovers his hand over the money and with a slight frown of concentration, he melts each one individually. He's placed them close together to force himself to hone the ability, he needs to focus the depth and gauge of the power to liquefy the chosen coin alone – not the railing below or the coins on either side. The very air seems to ripple as he unleashes just a fraction of what he can do. Silence abounds. Not only has Mohinder trailed off mid-sentence but the woods around them seem to have stilled. There is no birdsong, no rustling trees. It is as if nature itself is standing awed in Sylar's presence.

'That's amazing,' Mohinder whispers. His voice is hushed low enough to be barely audible and Sylar thinks he sounds exactly like his mother at church, enthralled by her closeness to God. When Mohinder steps nearer, his feet crunch through the snow and the silence breaks.

Mohinder's faith isn't absolute. He pokes the hardening puddles of metal, lifting each from the railing, marvelling at how the brunt of each coin has stayed together, even as the liquidised metal dribbled over the edge. There are splatters on the ground where the coins had jumped in place, all but exploding outwards while they changed state and Mohinder stoops to collect a few of the solidified droplets. He tosses them from palm to palm and hisses at the cold temperature against his skin, eventually giving up his inspection for the moment and pocketing them for later.

Mohinder may just be a pawn in Sylar's game but his sincere admiration is oddly gratifying. Sylar shouldn't care how someone as insignificant as Mohinder reacts to his show of power, and yet whenever Mohinder looks at him with that expression of unbridled fascination, every time Sylar senses the envy that underlies Mohinder's exclamations of wonder, he finds that he wants to show Mohinder what he can truly do. He tries to tell himself that he hadn't been showing off, that this little display was simply to entertain himself as Mohinder prattled on, but he knows that's a lie. He had wanted to stop Mohinder's words in his throat. A warm flush of success rushes through him and he ducks his head, passing off the rising colour in his cheeks as Zane's embarrassment at being the centre of Mohinder's attention.

'Did he know?' Mohinder asks. 'Your boy-- Ex-boyfriend, I mean. Did he know what you can do?'

The question startles Sylar and he isn't sure how to answer. He can't determine from Mohinder's voice what it is that Mohinder wants to hear. Sylar had thought that Mohinder had abandoned any interest in this line of enquiry hours ago and the sudden resurgence of this mythical boyfriend is not something he has been anticipating.

Sylar leans against the railing with a loud, defeated sigh and he hopes Mohinder will do the polite thing and change the subject. But the rules of decorum must be different in India because far from graciously seeing Sylar's reaction for the snub that it is, Mohinder settles next to him, a little too close for comfort.

'Is that why you broke up?' he presses.

Sylar nods. It seems simpler to let Mohinder spin his lies for him. He doesn't understand Mohinder's concern with his imaginary personal life and Sylar hasn't enough interest in the topic to construct an elaborate façade to placate him.

There's an awkward lull in the conversation. Or maybe Sylar's the only one who finds it awkward, because Mohinder is staring at him brazenly, seemingly unaware that he is invading Sylar's personal space and ruffling his composure. It's lucky that Sylar modelled himself on that bumbling fool in Virginia Beach because his own discomfort with the situation is bleeding through seamlessly into the mannerisms Sylar has come to think of as 'Zane's'.

'He wanted it to stop,' he eventually says. He recalls the plastic tarps spread around Zane Taylor's home. He thinks of the mess that Zane had warned him of and of the frantic message Mohinder had said that Zane had left. 'It was messy. Uncontrollable. Things melted as soon as I touched them. I would have thought I was losing my mind if he hadn't also been able to see what I could do. Our life was a nightmare. It was like being trapped in that Greek myth about Midas, y'know? For the first week or so, he had to feed me because forks, plates, _food_ was liquidising all around me. And the more I panicked the worse it got.'

Mohinder seems to be waiting for more. Sylar thinks about Brian Davis, about how he had been desperate to be rid of the gift he possessed. 'He thought I was a freak. Like I'd done something wrong to be cursed with this. Like it was somehow my fault that everything we thought we knew about the world was suddenly turned upside down.'

Mohinder is making sympathetic noises, hanging on his every word, and Sylar thinks this kind of attention is just as flattering as that he gets for his abilities. Mohinder is leaning into him. His hand is perched on Sylar's arm and he seems to be holding his breath, waiting for Sylar to continue. There's a sense of anticipation hanging in the air between them and it's up to Sylar to provide the dramatic conclusion. He slows the pace of his words, building up the tension to play with Mohinder's emotions. He has to suppress a smile at the way Mohinder can be so easily led.

'I started to get the hang of it. I could feed myself, clothe myself. I could function, I guess you could say, but that was all. I was terrified of leaving the house, and he did nothing to make me feel better. Day in day out he'd remind me that we had to be careful in case the neighbours saw something or suspected something. He was so concerned that someone might know that I wasn't normal… I…' Sylar licks his lips and suddenly he isn't thinking about Brian Davis or Zane Taylor; he's thinking of Gabriel Gray and how he had wrapped a noose around his neck.

'I didn't think I was normal anymore either,' Sylar whispers, barely aware that Mohinder is still listening. 'I didn't want to live like this, afflicted with this thing that controlled me. I called up every quack doctor I could find in the phonebook, looking for someone who wouldn't hang up on me. Someone who could fix me. Someone like you.'

'I can't make it stop,' Mohinder says sadly, interrupting for the first time.

'I know,' Sylar says with a reassuring smile. 'I don't want you to. Not now. I was wrong.' Sylar rubs his neck, remembering vividly how it had felt when the rope cut into his skin and his throat was being crushed by his own bodyweight. _A competent hanging should snap the neck_. The words he had read as he had planned his suicide had echoed in his mind as he had clawed at the noose. Gabriel had been too inept to even kill himself correctly.

He shakes his head to clear his mind. _That_ isn't part of 'Zane's' story.

'But it started to get easier to control. I could turn it on and off and suddenly it wasn't so scary anymore. I told him that maybe I didn't need to be 'cured'. That maybe I'd live with it for a bit and see how I felt. He told me that it was a stupid, useless curse, probably some rare disease that I picked up god knows where and that if I refused to get rid of it, he'd leave.' Sylar shrugged, trying to pass the motion off as something to conceal greater, lingering emotions. 'Maybe it is stupid and useless but it's part of me, y'know? And I didn't want to give it up if I didn't have to. So he's gone.'

Sylar's words grind to a halt and Mohinder's hand on his arm squeezes comfortingly. 'I'm sorry, Zane,' he whispers. 'You deserve so much better.'

Sylar stares at his feet and waits for Mohinder to clear his throat or stand, saying that they still have a ways to drive if they want to reach Bozeman before nightfall, but he doesn't. Instead the hand on his arm shifts to his upper thigh and the other comes to rest lightly on his chin. Even in the biting cold, Mohinder's skin feels warm and slightly damp with sweat as he tilts Sylar's face towards himself.

When Sylar raises his eyes to Mohinder's face, he doesn't expect to find the other man so close.

'You're not cursed, Zane.'

'I know,' Sylar stammers in reply. Isn't that what he has been trying to tell Mohinder all along? That he is blessed, gifted, more evolved than those around him and that the constraints of mere human morality that had so bothered Gabriel are no longer his concern. He's uncomfortable under Mohinder's touch but at the same time, perversely unable to pull away. Sylar wants to see where Mohinder intends this conversation to go.

'You're special, Zane. So special.'

Mohinder leans forward and kisses him lightly. His lips are softer than Sylar would have imagined. He can barely feel how chapped they have become by the winter wind as they move gently against his own. Mohinder's breath is sweet on his tongue. Sylar can taste the mints Mohinder bought at the last gas station and he wonders if he has somehow missed the signs that have been leading to this moment.

It isn't unpleasant being kissed by Mohinder. Strange perhaps, unexpected, but not actively repulsive. He keeps his eyes open and studies Mohinder's face, watching his eyes flicker behind closed lids as his hand cups Sylar's jaw more tightly. Sylar isn't kissing back. He has no desire to, and when Mohinder's tongue brushes against his parted lips, Sylar pulls away. He could use this, he knows, use Mohinder's attraction for his own ends, but why make things more complicated than they need to be? Mohinder is already enraptured of his powers and that is all that Sylar needs.

'I'm sorry,' he says quietly, eyes on Mohinder's mouth as the tip of his tongue darts out to clean his lips. 'I can't do this.'

Mohinder gives him a small, half smile and they sit in silence for a moment before moving wordlessly back to the car.


End file.
